


A Shot in the Dark

by ShaneAndrew



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the reader becomes the fifteenth member of the company, after saving Kíli’s life during the escape from the goblins’ caves. A subtle something begins to grow between the reader and said Dwarf, something that will lead them down an unexpected path together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a PWP fic, because just UNF Aidan Turner. However, as I started writing, a thousand words’ worth of smut became four chapters of developed story (there'll still be plenty of smut anyway, you just gotta wait for later on). This is a slow build fic that covers the escape from the goblins’ caves to the arrival of the company at Laketown (includes Beorn and Mirkwood; glosses over time spent as prisoners of Thranduil and the barrel shenanigans). Also I tried to write the reader's perspective as gender-neutral as possible, so that whomsoever reads this can insert themselves into the action, no matter their gender identity (please let me know if I failed miserably at that). 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> SA

You’re limping. Your breath is coming in ragged gasps, searing your lungs with each inhalation. Blood mixes with the dirt on your face and the sweat on your brow, runs down to ghost over your lips. On impulse, your tongue flicks out to catch the drops that tremble there. The sharp copper tang sends a shudder down your spine.

            And in the screaming dark, an unholy grin lights your eyes. 

            The echoing shriek of goblins sounds nearby, and you automatically press deeper into the crevice where you hide. Your ear twitches; there is a new thread of sound weaving its way through the general cacophony. A deep, guttural roar comprised of myriad voices and yet utterly unified in feeling. It is filled with the rage of vengeance, and fueled by purest hate.

            It was a sound your heart knew all too well. And it was fast approaching.

            Steeling yourself, you sheath your daggers, bloodied to the hilt. A quick roll of your shoulders to loose the tension there, and in one smooth motion you draw your morningstar and make for the path you’d so recently sought refuge from. Adrenaline is flowing like fine champagne. The thrum of bloodlust is singing its damning song in your veins. You draw power from your pain.

            You’re at the path, and can scent the danger in the air. Breathing deep, you heft your weapon and lunge out swinging. A lone goblin standing sentry, bow drawn, takes the brunt of the blow in the temple and lets out a hideous cry. You dive to the side as his arrow hisses past your arm, a hairsbreadth from your bicep. Rolling to your feet, you bring the spiked ball down to cleave again at the creature’s thick skull. And you’re off and running, knowing its screams will draw others. Move in quickly, get the job done, and move on.

            The thinning of the stench in the air tells you that you are drawing near to an exit; you are coming to the end of your time under the mountain. _Provided, of course, you’ve enough wits and luck to make it that far._

            Ignoring the thought, riding the hard rhythm of your heart, you continue bolting down the tunnels. The roar is coming closer yet, and though it intrigues some part of you the stubborn will to survive comes first. You’ve only yourself to depend on to get out alive.

            Suddenly words become distinguishable in the chaos, and the voice is not that of any goblin.

            “Only one thing can save us: daylight!”

            It is a low, commanding voice, and the steely strength in it shakes even you. Without pausing to think, you angle your steps towards the sound. One thing is certain: if whoever it is also seeks an escape – and you’re hard pressed to imagine how such words would indicate otherwise – you’re going to follow them. Something about the timbre of the voice, and of the clamoring behind it, tells you that someone knows the way out.

            In the next moment, all hell breaks loose.

            Your path intersects with another and you promptly careen into several dwarves. The impact and tangle of limbs sends you sprawling, slamming hard on your injured leg. A bolt of pain shoots up your thigh but you scramble to stand regardless, morningstar at the ready. Almost immediately you’re falling again as the handle of an axe slams into your side, sending all the air rushing from your body. Wheezing, you struggle to breathe, stars on the edge of your greying vision.  

            “Leave them!” This is a different voice, deeper and more resonant than the first. And a good deal harsher. “It’s no concern of ours. Move!”

            You manage to get to your hands and knees, willing yourself to not be sick. You glimpse a broad back and a mane of pitch-black hair streaked with silver, like smoke in the darkness. What little you can see of the face has you unconsciously backing away; the fierceness of what seems an almost desperate fury is incredibly intimidating.

            An awful howl has you turning, eyes going wide. The goblins are scrambling towards you on all fours, shrieking and brandishing their blades.

            There are hundreds of them, and for the first time you truly believe you could die in this place. But there is no way you’re going down without a fight. Hell would freeze first.

            Buying what little time you can, you race after the dwarves, pushing through the pain. _They’re coming, they’re coming_. The thought chants like a mantra in your mind. Suddenly the dwarves are turning, paying you no heed as they brace themselves for battle. Summoning the last of your energy, you turn to meet the first assault.

            The jagged edge of steel grazes your arm as you duck, spin to sweep the goblin’s legs out from under it. As it crashes to the dirt you bring your morningstar down like a hammer, shattering ribs and shredding skin. Pirouette, grab a dagger to plunge into the next one’s throat. Revel in the dark satisfaction of its wet, warm blood pouring over your hand.

            You fight, you hack and slash, every instant a struggle to survive. The dwarves are doing similarly, letting loose war cries in a language you do not know. These are warriors to the core, and they battle with lethal grace.

            No time to admire their skill in battle, though. A goblin has landed on your back, sunk its teeth into your shoulder. Letting loose a shout of pain, you backpedal as quickly as possible and slam the thing into the unyielding walls of the cavern. Again and again, until you feel its claws relenting and bits of its brain are beginning to leak onto your tunic from its smashed-in head. Hastily you shrug out of your over-coat, push it and the creature that clings to it to the floor.

            Mere moments after you’ve freed your arms something heavy falls hard into you, sends you to the ground with a bone-rattling thud. For the second time in as many minutes all the wind’s been knocked clean out of you, and now something damp and sticky is spreading across your hip. Ragged, rasping breaths blow hot over your neck whilst large hands scramble fruitlessly for purchase on either side of you. Your own hands jostle a thin shaft of wood protruding from the prone figure’s side, and come away slick with blood.

            Awareness sharpening, you focus and take stock of the body lying over yours. Shorter than you by no more than an inch or so, clothed in rough leather and expertly crafted armor, long dark hair decorated with the occasional braid. _Dwarf_. One of the dwarves had fallen on you after taking an arrow beneath the ribs.

            All this passes through your head in a matter of seconds. Pushing yourself to sitting, you grunt and flip the Dwarf onto his back. His mouth is gone slack, eyes closed, but you can see a pulse still fluttering in his neck. Alive, then, for the time being. The wound was deep and needed immediate attention if he was going to live.

            Without stopping to think, or question why you would stay behind for a fallen stranger, you stoop and sling the Dwarf over your shoulders, grabbing a wrist and an ankle to steady him. Surrounded by the chaos of battle, you kick out at an oncoming goblin and nearly overbalance as the Dwarf’s weight throws you off. Stumbling, trying to right yourself, some sixth sense has you ducking out of the way and pressing against the wall.

            A blinding light surges through the tunnel, knocking the goblins back, causing them to shriek in pain as they retreated into the darkness. Blinking hard, you see a shaft of sunlight streaming through the fetid air like salvation. It is fractured for a moment, and you realize that the other Dwarves have found an exit to this wretched place. Relief floods you as you catch your breath, waiting for the last of the goblins to pass you by. As soon as they’ve gone you stand again, and begin to jog into the light after the others. For a moment you almost forget the weight of the figure on your back, relishing the feel of fresh air on your cheeks, in your lungs. But it quickly returns, and you know that you need to find his companions.

            After what feels like an eternity but in reality is no more than five minutes, you hear clamoring ahead of you in the trees. Once you can see the group, all of them looking extremely worried, you let out a wordless shout. They turn to the sound and draw their weapons simultaneously, but one of them, a blond, lowers his sword almost as quickly as he’s drawn it, head shaking in denial of what he sees. “ _No!_ Kíli!”

            You lower your burden to the ground as he rushes towards you, rage and disbelief warring on his features. He falls to his knees and knocks you aside, tenderly laying the other’s head in his lap. You rise and move away as the rest of the Dwarves rush to circle the pair on the ground.

            “Kíli, Kíli, _please!_ ” The blond was whispering his comrade’s name like a prayer, interspersed with rough syllables in that strange language. Tears cut a clean path in the sweat-soaked grime on his face as he cradles the other with shaking hands.

            You stand to the side, torn between nursing your own hurts and finishing what you started...You’ve the distinct impression these Dwarves know little of medicine, if the way they were standing around looking dumbfounded was any indication. The injured dwarf had long since passed out, the pain and exhaustion too much to handle, and the rest just stood there like slack-jawed idiots.

            Hell with it. You stride forward to shove your way through their ranks, unslinging a small pack as you do so. Several hands snatch roughly at your arms, trying to pull you away.

            “You want him to live?” You speak the words low and dangerous, the screaming ache of your muscles and the incessant throbbing of your head fueling your temper. “You think I carried him all that bloody way on my back so I could bring him to more harm? You want him to live; you let me do what I can!” Without waiting for a reply you step forward again, shaking off their reluctantly relenting grip.

            The blond Dwarf looks up as you kneel down at – what was his name? – Kíli’s side. He hugs Kíli closer, defiance and grief making his eyes overbright. You see the immediate urge to protect, instinctive as breathing.

            “It’s alright.” You make a conscious effort to gentle your voice; if you can’t convince this Dwarf that his friend needs your help, he sure as hell won’t live out the night. “It’s alright; you don’t have to leave him. In fact, it’s better you stay and keep him still, and talk to him or something. The more relaxed he is, the easier it will be for me to get the arrow out and clean the wound.” You lay out your tools as you speak; you’d picked up invaluable healing skills from your mother when she’d been alive.

            A small, still-rational voice at the back of your mind wonders at what the hell you’re doing, playing physician with a gaggle of Dwarves when you should be making your way towards the East. It wasn’t as if you were out for a Sunday stroll in the mountains; you had important work that needed doing. But still you stayed and prepared to perform what amounted to surgery, though you did not know the reason why.

            One steadying breath, then another. You carefully unwrap a small, incredibly sharp knife and dip it briefly in your water-sack to cleanse the blade. Laying out bandages and ointment, you speak to the blond.

            “Talk to him, sing a lullaby, I don’t care. You need to keep him distracted, because this is going to wake him quickly. He’ll be disoriented, and the procedure’s going to hurt like a motherfucker. It’ll be hard enough to get the arrow out, deep as it is. I don’t need him struggling any more than is necessary.

            “Get his armor off. I need to get to the wound and have room enough to fiddle things around.” You added an edge to your voice that brooked no argument. The blond looked for a moment like he might disobey, but the look on your face must have convinced him otherwise. He leaned over carefully, undid the strings that bound the armor in place. Pushing it aside, he took the other’s tunic in hand, delicately and quickly tearing a line in it so he could push it all up above the arrow. Blood was steadily pulsing out from the hole in little dribbles; the hair on his chest was matted with it. Concentrating, clearing your mind, you picked up your knife.

            Making the incision through which the arrow could be removed was the easy part, and done in a matter of seconds. And thankfully you didn’t have to worry about the head detaching and becoming lost in the body; goblin arrows were too crudely made for that – just a sharpened bit of wood, really. More sophisticated arrows would have had the heads attached separately with beeswax, making it far easier for them to remain in your enemy’s system and cause lethal infections, even if you’d removed the arrow. All you had to do here was open the wound a bit, do some digging and pull the blasted thing out.

            Well, not quite all. The patient was not pleased with the procedure.

            He’d stirred as you’d finished your initial incision, looking around blearily and wincing as the pain came to him, the memories of collapsing in the whirling dark. The blond had done his best to soothe, to crack jokes and distract him, but as soon as you’d gotten to the digging part of the procedure he’d curled away from your hands, cursing you soundly. You shut your mind to the venomous insults he hurled at you, and kept working. The sooner it was out the better; your nerves were becoming as frayed as the skin you pushed past to find the arrow’s end.

            _Ah, there you are_. After working nearly your whole forefinger into Kíli’s body alongside the wood, you’d found the point. Gripping the end of the shaft with your free hand, you pressed your fingertip against the head to steady it, and began to withdraw. The Dwarf’s curses melted into one long roar of pain, until the whole of it was out about ten seconds later. Hastily you began mopping up the blood, wiping your hands as best you could on a cloth before grabbing the jar of ointment and smearing it along the edges of the hole.

            “Durin’s beard, are you _trying_ to kill him?” the blond snapped as Kíli hissed against the sting. He’d held tight to both of the other’s hands from the moment he’d woken, and though his voice had remained soothing his eyes had been promising you a great deal of pain when this was over. Now his voice cut at you like glass, impatient and in agony over seeing Kíli suffer.

            “The ointment will lower the risk of infection and speed the healing process. I’m almost done.” Your own voice was far from calm, becoming ever more clipped and precise as your ire rose. But your hands never slowed, seeming to work almost independently. “Infection of a wound like this can be fatal if left untreated, so you’d best be thanking your lucky stars I thought to pack the necessary supplies. He seems to mean rather a lot to you, so unless you want him to be a corpse by nightfall I suggest you shut the hell up and let me finish! I’ll be out of your much-braided hair soon enough.”

            Wrapping the bandages around the Dwarf’s torso a final time, you expertly tie it off and tuck the loose ends in. “There. You’ll do. Now if you’re done cursing me to the skies and back, I’ll be on my merry way.”

            “You’re not going anywhere.” This from the one who’d commanded the others to ignore you in the caves. His black hair fell clear to his waist, but with the exception of Kíli his beard was easily the least noticeable of the group. His voice was like boulders, his build and bearing all unyielding angles. The autocratic set of his jaw and his high-held head spoke of being accustomed to obedience from others.

            Too bad for him you were used to being your own master.

            “I could be wrong,” you began, raising your chin to match his, “But when and where I go is none of your business. Keep in mind I just prevented your friend there from bleeding to death, so I’ll thank you to not boss me around.”

            A collective intake of air from those assembled was your first clue that you’d put a foot wrong. The second, rather more abundantly clear clue was the Dwarf letting out a growl, drawing a huge and shining sword and placing the tip inches from your heart.

            “As I said,” he all but whispered, eyes glinting in warning, “You are not going anywhere. I have questions.”

            One of the others, wearing sand-colored clothes and a winged hat, shifted uncomfortably. “Thorin, maybe we should talk about all this later, when ye’ve both calmed down a bit –” A single scowl cut off the Dwarf, who clammed up almost immediately.

            “No good deed goes unpunished, I see.” Thorin’s attention swings back to you, glaring, and you glare right back. “I’m tired, I’m angry, I’m in a lot more pain than I’m letting on. Also, I resent having a damn great sword waved at my vital organs after I’ve just risked my skin to save one of you, though the gods know I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known this would be the outcome of it.” Your hands are balled into fists now, your feet planted immovably on the forest floor. “What do you want from me?”

            “Answers,” he bit out. “Who are you? Where did you come from; where is it you are so anxious to get to? How did you come to be in the goblin’s realm, and just happen to cross paths with my company?” His dark blue eyes bored into yours. “Why would you save my nephew?”

            A host of answers, none of them truly honest, flutter through your aching head. Fervently you wish for sleep, for an escape into solitude. No such luck, you think wryly. This had to be dealt with, and then you’d continue your journey with or without their approval.

            “I’m nobody, really. I came from behind and I’m going ahead. To the East, if you must know. I sure as hell didn’t want to get all cozy with the goblins; I’d taken shelter in a cave in the mountains and next thing I know the floor’s gone missing and I’m being interrogated by some huge, greasy bugger and being thrown in a cell. They put me to work forging weapons, after taking the ones I’d brought with me and liking the look of them.” You carefully avoided the fact that you’d carved a fair number of arrows under their command as well; the situation was sticky enough as it was.  “Was in there for a week or so. I was making my escape when I ran into you lot.”

            “And Kíli?”

            “The one I saved?” You slant a glance at the Dwarf in question where he lay. He was still grim-faced but there was a hint of fascination on his features now as well. You shrug, and opt for full disclosure. “I don’t know. Just felt like I should, I guess.”

            Thorin looked sternly at Kíli, as though asking him to corroborate your answers. He mirrored your shrug, and his eyes did not leave you.

            “The last thing I remember is getting shot and falling,” he said. “I think I blacked out soon after. Don’t remember how I got here.” You find yourself thinking that his voice is quite nice when he’s not cursing, low and melodious.

            “You were being carried,” said the blond. He nodded towards you. “They had you over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes.” His eyes, not quite so furious as they’d been, studied you as he helped Kíli to sit. “Why did you risk yourself for my brother?”

            Brother and nephew? What, was this one gigantic family gathering? You shake your head and hunch up your shoulders, uncomfortable with the continued scrutiny. “I told you, I don’t know why I stayed behind to save him. It was just a random impulse.”

            “And you don’t wish me any more harm?” You open your mouth to let loose another scathing remark, but you could swear you saw a twitch at the corner of Kíli’s lips. You’re surprised to feel your own tug in response, but keep the odd urge to laugh out of your reply.

            “If I’d wanted to harm you more I could’ve just shoved that arrow deeper when I was working on you. Skewered you right through and roasted you for supper, but getting thoroughly maimed by a group of Dwarves would put a bit of a crimp in my day.”

            That surprises a laugh out of a few of the company, Kíli included. You let a small grin through before turning back to Thorin.

            “Are you satisfied? I need to be getting on.”

            “It just so happens,” he says hesitantly, “That my companions and I are also traveling East. You obviously have some skill in healing, and…and I may have been wrong to not thank you before. Kíli and Fíli are my nephews and I have raised them from when they were children – they are as sons to me.” His throat works hard a moment. “I am sorry to have doubted your intentions, and I thank you for saving Kíli.” He did not quite bow, but did incline his head.

             You return the gesture quickly. “You’re welcome.” About time you got some recognition. You sling your pack back onto your shoulder, and make to turn away.

            “Wait – I said we were traveling East, as you are. If you so choose, we’d have good use of your skills.”

            That has you halting, turning back with your brow raised. “You want me to travel with you? Tend your hurts when you get yourselves in a fix?” You look away, for some reason unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “I’m, ah, rather accustomed to traveling alone. I don’t do well in groups. I don’t do orders, or hierarchy, and I can be pretty selfish when it comes to my own needs. You sure you want someone like that bringing you down?”

            “Saving my life isn’t selfish.” Kíli is scowling again, but there’s something else behind his eyes. A reluctant pleading, it almost seems. “I say you stay.”

            You’re amazed that your jaw doesn’t fall right through the earth beneath you. The same Dwarf that had been wishing hellfire upon you and your family mere minutes before was now insisting you join their happy little family? “Are you serious, or did you hit your head as well as get shot?”

            The blond, whom you assume to be the one Thorin had called Fíli, searches his brother’s face. Kíli looks at him and cocks his head to the side, and Fíli squeezes his hand. “I’m with Kíli.”

            “And the rest of you?” You almost laugh, it’s so absurd. There are thirteen Dwarves, and two other figures you hadn’t noticed before – what looks to be a Hobbit and a man of magic. Some are frowning, others look curious, and the one in the winged hat is grinning downright cheerfully.

            “Er…I guess that’s settled, then.” You look to Thorin and he nods, once up and once down.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where are we going?”

            “Sure and you’d have to ask our resident wizard; I haven’t the faintest.” Bofur, who seemed to you to be permanently unworried, puffed away at his pipe. He’d taken to you quite quickly since your rather dramatic entrance into the company, being the only one to really approach you that first night. You’d been sitting against a tree, bundled against the cold and a little ways away from the others, not really feeling the whole group-cohesion thing. He’d sauntered over with a bowl of stew, pushed it into your hands with a reassuring smile, sat down next to you and proceeded to play his flute for some time.

            The warm and hearty food, coupled with the sweetly sobbing melodies, had brought the first real smile to your lips since…wow. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d smiled and meant it. Nor could you remember the last time anybody had tried to put you at your ease, make you feel welcome.

            So you’d stuck by Bofur over the next couple of days. He’d proved to be amiable nearly all of the time, and always had his sharp wit at the ready if he felt you’d been frowning for too long.

            Now you walk side by side in the sunlight, the company spread throughout a huge field of wheatgrass. You look over your shoulder, wondering how Kíli is holding up. He’s bringing up the rear about ten feet behind you, being helped along by his ever-present brother. His wound had begun to heal, bit by bit, but you’d run out of ointment yesterday and was worried about keeping it clean. That, and the nature of the Dwarves’ expedition was that they needed to move quickly, when what Kíli needed was to be in bed for the next week to recuperate. Not hiking ten hours a day.

            Although, you had to admit that you admired his persistence. He did his best to not complain and only really let the pain show on his face when he thought no one but Fíli could see him. Not that you’d been watching him overmuch, or anything. You were simply doing what Thorin had invited you along to do, tending to your patient.

            You were roused from your musings when Kíli suddenly put a hand to his side, wincing and murmuring something to his brother from between clenched teeth. Frowning, you stride towards the pair.

            “It’s reopened, hasn’t it?”

            Fíli, surprised, raises a brow. “How did you know that?” Kíli merely nods, jaw set.

            “Let’s just say I’m familiar with the signs.”

            The tightness in your voice must have worried Fíli, because he willingly shifts his brother’s arm from his own shoulders to yours. It was a gesture of trust you hadn’t been expecting, given how closely he’d clung to his brother in the days previously. “I’ll tell Thorin and the others. Keep him safe.” With that parting plea, he hurries away.

            Left alone for the moment, you become aware that being connected to Kíli physically when he’s fully conscious is rather more disconcerting than having his lifeless body draped over you. Feeling his shallow breath tickle the hairs at the base of your neck as he leans his weight against you and fights down a groan is…stirring; has unusual sensations prickling low through your abdomen. Swallowing, unsettled, you shift your grip and help the Dwarf to sit.

            “Off with your shirt. I need to take a look.”

            His eyes are clenched shut now along with his mouth, breathing hard through his nose. He does not reply.

            Worried, you tap his face firmly with your palm. “Kíli? Kíli, can you hear me?” He nods. “I need you to take your shirt off, so I can look at the wound and make it better. Okay?”

            “Can’t,” he whispers. “Hurts too much.”

            Oh boy. “I’m going to take it off for you then. I need to look at it.”

            Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he nods again, fists his hands in the dirt.

            Gently, carefully you peel away his sweaty tunic, pushing it up to bunch beneath his armpits. The bandage you’d replaced that morning was staining quickly, impossibly dark blood seeping out from between the folds. Cursing, you scramble for fresh cloth and unscrew the cap from your water-skin, yet again. Would this journey had taken you near to a stream and a market town, where you could resupply adequately.

            Taking a length of bandage and quickly folding it, you remove the soiled cloth and press the improvised pad to the ragged hole. Pouring a measure of water onto the dirty bandage you begin to mop, again, at the blood that thickens Kíli’s chest hair. If you couldn’t staunch the bleeding soon, there would not be much you could do for the young Dwarf. Damn to this stupid journey; the wound had been clotting and scabbing just fine until they’d decided to push on despite his injury. And damn to him for agreeing with them.

            The wizard, Gandalf they’d called him, strides over with Thorin and Fíli close on his heels. You look up at them, quiet fury coloring your voice.

            “The wound’s opened, and we cannot go further until it’s closed up again. We should never have moved him in the first place. If he doesn’t get the time needed to heal properly, this is going to become commonplace and he won’t be getting anywhere in a hurry, except perhaps to an early grave.”

            Thorin makes to speak, looking thunderous, but a glance from Gandalf stalls him.

            “You need not worry about finding shelter for young Kíli,” he rumbles soothingly. “We happen to be nearer to our next resting place than you know; an old friend of mine lives quite near to here.” He sweeps a hand out to encompass the surroundings. “This is one of his fields. He will have good food, and wine, and healing implements to get us all back on our feet. We’re no more than two miles out from his home.”

            You look back at Kíli. His eyes are open again, though sweat now beads his forehead and his hands have yet to relieve their grip on the ground. “I can last two miles more,” he grinds out, stealing a glance at his uncle. Thorin nods in approval. That seems to bolster him marginally, and he pushes himself to sit a little straighter.

            Fíli stoops down by his side. “You sure, little brother?” A grin flits across his face, though his eyes are still worried. “I’ll have to carry you like a blushing bride if you really want to go on.”

            Kíli chuckles at that, gives the blond a weak punch in the shoulder. “You certainly need the practice,” he says, voice thready. “No girl’s going to want a lad that can’t even lift a forging hammer. And a proper bride’ll weigh at least five stone more than I.”

            Some of the worry fades from Fíli’s eyes. If Kíli was able to keep up with their usual verbal sparring, he couldn’t be too badly injured. He holds out his arms, lean and well-muscled. “In you get then, darling. The children are waiting for you to make them supper.”

            “Hang on, I haven’t finished with him.” Your voice comes out crosser than you’d intended; for some odd reason seeing the two laughing together while ignoring your work sent something like jealousy hissing through your head.

            “Oh, lighten up.” Kíli winces slightly as you bind the wound. “You can be my affair on the side, when the husband here starts coming home too late.”

            Leaden ice drops into your stomach, and for a moment your eyes go hot with hurt.

            _“Is that all I am to you? An amusement in the night?”_

_“I’m married, you little fool, or hadn’t you figured that out? How much attention did you really expect to get?”_

And then it’s gone, as quickly as it came. Blinking rapidly, you tie off the bandage and stride back to where Bofur stands chatting with the Hobbit, Bilbo. You don’t need those memories right now.

            “How’s he holdin’ up then?” Bofur casts a concerned look towards the little group around Kíli.

            “He’s too damn stubborn for his own good, and one of these days it’s going to get him killed,” you snap without thinking, angry that you’d been reminded of your past. Bofur stills, and Bilbo’s brows almost disappear into his chestnut curls. Realizing your mistake a moment too late, you clear your throat awkwardly.

            “Sorry.”

            “It’s no trouble,” Bofur reassures after a moment, though he watches you more closely now. “You’re just worried for him is all. I understand.”

            “The wound’s reopened and he’s in a fair bit of pain. Gandalf says we’re only two miles away from a friend of his, but unless this friend happens to be a physician I don’t see how I can keep it clean, keep treating it. I’m practically out of my supplies.”

            “I think Gandalf knows what he’s doing,” said Bilbo hesitantly. “Granted I say that against my better judgment; I’ve been led on quite the merry chase since he showed up at my door. But whenever we’ve gotten into bad scrapes he’s always appeared in the nick of time with some catch-all solution, and then we’re alright again. It never lasts,” he says, a small and wry smile on his face now, “But he is always there when we need him most. I’d guess this friend of his, whoever it may be, will have whatever we need close at hand.”

            “Kíli’ll be alright, don’t you worry your head about it overmuch,” Bofur chimes in. “He’s a strong lad; he’ll come through just fine.”

            “Yeah, yeah you’re right.” You give the pair a falsely bright smile. “He’ll be okay, I’m just being stupid.”

            You can tell Bofur doesn’t buy it for an instant, but he wisely refrains from pursuing the matter. Forcing yourself to not look back again you keep walking, Bilbo and Bofur falling in just behind you.

            _Bloody, bloody damn_. You’d left that life behind you, had convinced yourself to run off on this mad adventure to get away from all of that. The absolute last thing you needed right now was to be thrown back into the mindset of that time…all the doubts and self-hatred and utter conviction that you would never do right by your family had been like poison forever snaking its way through your head. If you had to relive it, face it all again you would lose the faith in yourself you had worked so very hard to build. You would lose your purpose and your drive, and the merciless tyrant of regret would once again make you its prisoner.

            You could not afford to let that happen. Staying away from a certain dark-haired Dwarf and his careless jests seemed to be the best option.

*      *      *

“So, tell me! What is your purpose in traveling along these roads?”

            You hadn’t thought it possible but the Dwarves were looking downright intimidated, albeit it some of them were still clinging to a shred of defiance. You couldn’t blame them; this mountain of a man who was taller than even Gandalf had a booming gong of a voice and a frankly wild look about him.

            Speaking of the wizard, you can’t help but notice that he’s distinctly grinning to himself. How nice that he was amused by such proceedings.

            “I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of –”

            “Son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Bloody Mountain, yes _I know_.” The giant rolls his eyes. “There are many tongues a-wagging about you and your little quest. Whispered rumors as to your intentions. I just want to know if there is any truth to them.”

            Thorin, not at all pleased at being so thoroughly cut off, flounders for a moment. “We – that is to say, my company and I – intend to take back what is ours. That filth of a fire-drake plundered Erebor and defiled our sacred halls, drove us away from our home and hearth.” His chest puffs out now, caught in conviction and bitter memories, and so does not notice your muffled gasp of surprise. “He deserves not the wealth of the mountain on which he so greedily sits. That is the right of the line of Durin, and _our_ right alone!”

            You’d received one or two odd looks for reacting in the manner you had, and you hastened to make neutral your features. Never mind the fact that your heart was now hammering excitedly against your ribs, bounding like a startled rabbit.

            You’d only ever heard small pieces of the tale; those little bits of legend remembered by the old folk and passed down through story and song. They spoke of a dragon, fierce and ruthless, destroying the city of Dale and all within its walls before turning to the mountain and making plain his lust for gold and death. Of a hot, dry wind like a hurricane being the only warning before all was turned to tears and ash.

            You yourself had not been there; you wouldn’t be born for another hundred and thirty years after. It was your mother who had told you of it, how her ancestors had stayed behind to try and fight for their home, telling their children that they would be sent for once the danger had passed. But they had perished in the unrelenting flames, and left your great-great-grandmother and her brothers orphaned. They had slipped in amongst the Dwarves who sought refuge in the West, had eventually settled in Bree and begun to rebuild their lost lives.

            For as long as you could remember, whenever you’d asked about your family beyond what you’d known in your short life all your mother would do was shake her head, and say that you were too young to know of such sadness. When you’d gotten a little older, she’d finally relented and told you of how you’d come to be in Bree, fighting to keep food on the table day to day even though you were descended from nobility – her great-grandmother’s father had been Girion, the last Lord of Dale.

            From the moment you had heard the truth, you had vowed to one day avenge those who had come before you. To see the dragon that had taken life and livelihood from your ancestors broken and defeated, as the city that was your birthright had been. It was why you now made your way East to the Lonely Mountain: You would do anything to restore the honor to your family’s name, to bring back the vibrant life that must have once flowed like a river through the streets of Dale. You would do anything to give back to your family what was rightfully theirs.

            You would even give your life. If nothing else came of this, it would at least show to that scum that his victims of long ago had never forgiven, never forgotten. They would bring about his downfall and see him dead.

            How very interesting that your intentions should coincide so neatly with those you now traveled with.

            “And you? What is your purpose in all this?”

            “Hm?” You mentally shake yourself free of your thoughts, to find the whole company staring at you rather strangely. The giant is grinning at you, smirking, while the Dwarves are regarding you with some unease.

            “Ah, I’m – I’m going to – ” You clear your throat. “What Thorin said. I’m with them.”

            Surprise, shock even, makes itself known on the countenances gathered around you. You notice, belatedly, that they’ve slowly and subtly encircled you so that you’re the focus of attention. Singled out because you’re not a Dwarf, and clearly not part of the group. Not truly.

            “Is that so?” says the man, looking intrigued. His smirk has all but vanished, and is regarding you with an expression you cannot place. “And why, I wonder, would one of the race of Men be so _keen_ on retaking a long-lost Dwarven kingdom?” He begins to circle you, a predator staking out its chances. “That’s awfully kind of you. Have your eyes on a bit of treasure, do you? Hoping to get the job done then sneak away with a handful of rubies?” Your heart, already working hard, quickens again as you feel embers of defensive anger stirring in your gut. Still he circles, weighing you, measuring you, judging you like so many before him. “Or emeralds maybe, some diamonds for to seduce someone you fancy?”

            The anger rises, sparking to flame. “Your ignorance is unbelievable; I would have thought the wizard would choose his _friends_ with a great deal more care.” You can practically feel everyone in the room freeze, astounded at your audacity and lack of tact. “You seriously believe I would risk life and limb, every day, for a bit of petty cash?” It’s your turn to circle now, for the giant had stopped in his tracks once you’d insulted him. Some part of your mind warns you that this line of action is incredibly dangerous, but you’re too heated to turn back now.

            “My reasons for traveling East with the death of a dragon in mind are my own and to my own purpose, that’s true. But you can bet your arse it sure as hell isn’t for monetary gain. Saying so insults my family, makes light of the suffering they’ve endured just to stay alive. And in insulting my family and those before, you insult me.” You stop back where you’d started, nose to nose with the giant. Without breaking eye contact, you take out one of your daggers and draw it across your palm in a shallow slice, hissing at the sting of the blade. Relishing the strength inherent in the pain.

            “I swear to you, by my blood and the blood of those that flow within me, my intentions are purer than you could ever know. And should you continue to insult and discredit my family’s name, I will see you burn as Dale did at the hands of the one they call Smaug.” A long, thin red line snakes from your palm and down your forearm as you raise your fist, and you let the hatred of a century and a half shine like steel in your eyes. Dramatic you may be, but entirely serious you are also. You won’t stand for such disrespect.

            The man steps back, his face closing to you. You lower your fist, still letting the blood drip, drip, drip onto the polished floor. You’ve made your statement, had your moment. It was up to them now whether or not they still wanted you.

            The giant’s face splits into a wide grin, and he claps Gandalf on the back. “Well, well, well! I daresay we have ourselves a serious traveler here. Well done,” he says to you. “You’ve made your point clear enough for me. You’re welcome in my halls with the others, for as long as you need.” He whistles, has two servants appearing like magic. “Lay a meal for our guests,” he barks. “And bring out the best of my mead. We shall feast tonight, and toast the success of a difficult journey.” With that he strides away to oversee the completion of his commands.

            Baffled, bemused, you stay where you are a moment as the company surges forward, ecstatic at the prospect of a hearty meal and a good drink, and of warm, soft beds to follow. A hand lays on your shoulder and you start briefly, look up to see Gandalf regarding you with a great deal of satisfaction.

            “Well done indeed,” he murmurs. “I do believe there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

            “What…just happened?” You’re glad the confrontation is over and that you were taken seriously, no doubt. Yet for some reason you felt a rather acute sense of anticlimax. “One minute he’s looking at me like he’s going to rip me limb from limb, and the next he’s grinning like a child given treats and ordering a feast? I’m pretty sure I missed something.”

            Gandalf smiles and nudges you gently after the others, falling into step beside you. “Beorn may seem insensitive and overbearing at times, but at his core he is one of the finest fellows I’ve had the pleasure – and wisdom, thank you – to befriend. He cannot and does not tolerate pettiness, greed or selfishness at any level, and he has a great and abiding respect for those that work to serve others before themselves.” He glances at you sidelong. “You proved to him just what you were willing to risk for the company, as well as your family. To him that demonstrates your honor and makes you quite worthy of his respect.”

            You feel your spirits rise, just a little. It may be unusual for you to feel respected, but you don’t hesitate to welcome the novelty of the feeling. “That’s…that’s good, then.” You start to return his smile, before clapping a hand to your forehead. “Oh bollocks, I should check up on Kíli. He was hardly staying upright when we came in.” Without a word more you leave the wizard in the hall, forgetting your earlier vow to stay away from the young Dwarf.

            You walk through the nearest double doors, and behold the largest dining hall you’ve ever laid eyes on. The company is already digging in with unbridled enthusiasm, though you could swear the innumerable dishes and foodstuffs have just barely been put on the table. Ignoring the tantalizing scents and the way your mouth starts to water, you cast your eyes around the room and quickly locate Kíli. He’s sitting as straight as he can in his chair and showing every sign of enjoyment, though he still looks a bit peaky. His well-sculpted face is laughing, dark eyes alight with mischief as he tosses an egg in Bombur’s direction, lifts his tankard and drinks deeply.

            Your gazes connect as he lowers his ale, and he smiles even deeper. Gestures to the seat at his left, nods when you hesitate.

            Squaring your shoulders, you make your way to his side, oddly feeling a little out of place again. But he smiles up at you, sets a full tankard in front of you.

            “How’re you feeling? How’s your side?”

            He takes a healthy bite of potato. “Forget my bleeding side for an hour or two; it seems you never stop fussing over me.” He chuckles at your stony look, pulls out your chair. “Here now, I didn’t mean anything by it. I am touched by your concern.”

            You shrug and sit, surprised by how watery your legs suddenly feel. “It’s nothing, really. I’m just doing as your uncle requested of me.”

            “So stiff, so formal.” He winces slightly, hand fluttering by his side, but playfully bumps shoulders with you. “Come on, relax. Indulge yourself.” Was it just your imagination, or did his eyes glitter on the word ‘indulge’? “Stuff yourself silly, have one or three drinks too many. We’re safe and sound for now; you should take advantage of it.”

            “Are you always this jovial with good food and a pint at hand?”

            “You’d be hard-pressed to find a Dwarf that isn’t.” Again that wince, again he tried to mask it. “This is what we live and fight for, really. Good food and good company, the delights of a meal with people you love. Life at its fullest.”

            “Kíli, you’re not fooling me. You’re still in pain.”

            He sighs. “Aye, that’s true enough. But you said yourself it’d take a good deal of rest for it to heal properly, yes?” At your nod, he takes another swig. “Consider this the start of that rest. The food’s a good, heartening start. It’ll help me sleep more soundly too; no doubt you’re worrying about that as well as everything else.”

            “Can’t help it, it’s in my nature –”

            “Hey.” He puts his forefinger to your lips, surprising you to silence. “No one’s telling you not to be yourself. None of us can help who we are, nor should we have to.” The sweetness, the simplicity of the statement has you swallowing your words, mollified and reluctantly touched. “You can tell me all about your nature later, but only if you promise to enjoy yourself now. Okay?”

            Not knowing what to say, having no words, you simply pull back from his finger and nod, mustering a smile. You start with a hefty pull from your tankard, and feel the tension leaving you as the sweet, heavy mead pours through your overworked system. Seeing the change, Kíli relaxes as well and brushes his fingers over your cheek before returning to his plate.

            The gesture has your breath hitching, just a little. You swallow hard around the unexpected lump in your throat; you wonder if his new friendliness will continue once he discovers your past, the other reason for your journey to the Lonely Mountain. You were fighting for your family, of course. But you were also fighting yourself, and a more formidable foe you had never faced.

            What would he think, when he discovered the reason why?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS BRIEF MENTION OF DUBCON IN THIS CHAPTER. It is fleeting, but there nonetheless. I apologize in advance if this ends up hurting anybody. Read at your discretion. 
> 
> SA

The company came to a halt some thirty feet beyond the line of trees. Every instinct is screaming for you to turn back; the entrance to Mirkwood has a decidedly evil feel about it. And the fact that it stretches in every direction as far as the eye can see is no comfort either.

            It looks dark, and predatory, and resonated with death and decay.

            Fervently you wish for the comfort and the security of Beorn’s halls; the ten days you had spent under his expansive and boisterous wing had been marvelous for providing the illusion of impregnability. You’d left there only that morning feeling like you could take on the world and win. Looking now at the next leg of your journey, that feeling is no more than a distant memory.

            “Cheerful place.”

            “You heard Gandalf; it’s either this or detouring two hundred miles South and having to deal with more Orcs than you can shake a dismembered arm at.” You’re masking your reluctance to continue, and you can see that several of the Dwarves are doing similarly. But a subtle thread of fear is cunningly weaving itself through the group, binding it. Impeding movement.

            Several throats get cleared. Uncomfortable shuffling ensues. No one moves an inch closer.

            “We are fifteen strong,” Thorin says, jaw hardening. “And all of us are proven ready. We have no reason to fear this place.”

            You don’t even bother to hide your disbelieving snort. “See, you say that now. You don’t have a clue as to what could happen in there any better than the rest of us.” Several glares get aimed in your direction. “What? It’s normal to fear the unknown.”

            “If we don’t go into this with courage, we’ll never succeed.”

            “If we don’t go into this with the acceptance of the fact that we could come to harm, we won’t be on our guard. If we’re not on our guard, we’ll never succeed.” You angle your chin upwards, cross your arms over your chest.

            “Fear is a paralytic.”

            “It’s a motivator to get out of danger.”

            “Ye’re both right, how’s about that?” Bofur interjects. “Just depends who it is that’s respondin’ to it.”

            You let out an impatient huff. “Either way, we may as well get going. While I don’t doubt that Smaug’ll be content to stay where he is, I for one don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in those trees.”

            “You’re afraid, but you don’t need to be,” Kíli asserts, with all the arrogance of youth. “We’ll protect you.”

            “This from the guy who needed me to yank an arrow out of his gut not two weeks ago.”

            “That’s enough,” Thorin declares. “We will stick to the path as Gandalf instructed us, and therefore we will have nothing to fear.” Without another word he all but swaggers towards the waiting woods, leaving the company no choice but to follow.

            _Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves_ , you think to yourself. You fall into step towards the rear of the company and find yourself at Bilbo’s side. He gives you a small, tight smile and you can see clear that he’s not so sure of the group’s safety either.

            “Can I ask you a question?”

            “Hm?” He starts just a little, obviously lost in thought.

            “How exactly does a Hobbit fall in with a gang of Dwarves hell-bent on revenge?”

            “Ah. It’s sort of a complicated answer, that. And I could easily ask you the same.”

            “It’s sort of a complicated answer,” you retort, grinning not unkindly. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

            He considers a moment. “Fair enough.” You’re the last of the group to pass under the instantly oppressive canopy at the forest’s border, and you feel unpleasant anticipation shudder up the Halfling’s spine. Swallowing hard, he brings his attention back to you.

            “You could say it’s the fault of my ancestry, what with knocking heads into rabbit-holes and always being late for dinner,” he begins, has you chuckling bemusedly. It seemed you weren’t the only one who was more than met the eye.

            “You see, until this lot showed up at my door rather unexpectedly I was an entirely respectable Hobbit, rather like my father’s side of the family, the Bagginses. The Tooks, from my mother…” He smiles in spite of himself. “Well, let’s just say they’re a rather adventurous folk. Not a care in the world, and be damned to any that scold them for their debauched ways.”

            “And it was this Took side that inspired you to join them?”

            He nods. “That, and having a king ask me to play a part in his quest was exhilarating in its own right.”

            “A king?” Beorn’s dismissal of Thorin’s introduction comes rushing back to you. “Thorin’s a king?”

            “He’s the heir to Erebor.”

            “And if Kíli and Fíli are his nephews…that makes them heirs too. They’re princes.”

            “They certainly are, although I must say I’ve never seen such fun-loving royalty in all my life.”

            “Holy shit, I saved a _prince?_ ”

            Bilbo looks at you concernedly. “He’s still just Kíli. To be honest, I don’t think he really thinks about it all that much. Or if he does, I certainly haven’t noticed. So what’s your story?”

            “Huh?” _You saved the life of a descendent of Durin! Bet you never saw that coming, eh?_

            “Why are you with us?”

            “Oh.” You have to consciously tear your thoughts away from the mental image of Kíli in what you thought of as princely finery; it’s quite a captivating fantasy that warms you more than you’ll readily admit to.

            “You could say that my ancestry had a hand in putting me on this path too. You know the story: Smaug destroys Dale, takes Erebor, the Dwarves have to relocate. My family came from Dale, fled it when he came to take the mountain. Were it not for the dragon, we would never have had to work as we did to make our livelihood. We were practically reduced to beggars, never knowing when our next meal would come.”

            “I’m terribly sorry,” said Bilbo, looking a little uncomfortable. “How…if you don’t mind my asking, how was it you had to make your livelihood?”

            You feel a twitch under your eye, and you’re quiet a moment. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s far and away from respectable, and not a very nice thing to think about.”

            “You forget, I’ve been traveling with thirteen Dwarves for some months now,” the Halfling says drily. “I may be a Baggins, but I’ve seen and heard plenty of things that come nowhere near to respectable since I walked out my door.”

            “Alright, if you’re sure,” you say, more for your benefit than for Bilbo’s. “I…sold myself. My body. Nightly, to whoever wanted it. Man or woman.” There, you’d said it aloud. And like magic, like a curse, at that moment Kíli turned and met your eyes. And what you saw there had you scrambling to change the subject.

            “Ah, anyway I saved up. From my job, I mean. I saved up for three years until I could leave. I left Bree and set out to avenge my family. And that’s why I’m here.”

            “Oh, you lived in Bree? That’s not so far from my own home; I live in Hobbiton.” And he began chatting happily of his home and his books and his garden, as if you hadn’t just told him you were a prostitute.

            You let him talk, still internally unraveling. _Gods save me, he heard everything. He knows. He knows. Dear Valar, what am I going to do?_

            Your worrying is interrupted by Thorin, announcing it was time to make camp for the night. Not saying much, the company split off to their separate duties. Kíli volunteered for first watch. You tried to catch his eye almost fearfully, but he would not look at you. Whether or not it was due to what he’d heard or just because he wasn’t thinking of you, you felt hurt, betrayed somehow.

            Almost like a little replay, Bofur brings you your dinner as you sit away from the company. But given the danger you are all in, he does not play his flute this night. Instead he waits patiently while you eat your bread and salted pork, smoking his pipe.

            “Ye’re lookin’ mighty troubled,” he says quietly, when you’ve finished. “Something’s botherin’ ye, I take it?”

            It’s all you can do to not break down, then and there. “Bofur…I appreciate your concern, I really do. It’s good to know I’m not alone.” You look him in the face then, finding it extraordinarily difficult to meet his soft brown eyes. “I don’t – I can’t talk about it right now, alright? It’s just some old stuff came up that I haven’t thought about in a while. Thought I was rid of it, that’s all.”

            He nods, considering. “There’s no need to tell me, then. Just know that if you’re able to talk about it later on I’ll listen, y’hear? I don’t want ye feelin’ like ye’re not part of the company just ’cause ye’re not a Dwarf.”

            You fight down a humorless laugh. It’s far more than the difference of race that separates you from the others, you think. They’d all done nobly by their names, their families. You’d let yours become contaminated, desecrated.

            But you don’t say any of that aloud. You simply smile a sad smile and put your hand briefly on Bofur’s shoulder.

            “Thanks. For everything.”

            “Anytime, anytime.” He seems more at ease, now that he’s done what he can to alleviate your pain. He moves away to make sure the others have eaten their fill.

            You watch as he moves around, trying not to watch too hard when he stops over by Kíli. You can’t hear what they’re saying to each other, as the space between you is too great. You simply watch, and wonder.

            Sighing heavily, you lay out your bedroll and blankets. It’ll be hard enough to sleep in this place without the worrying that you’d lost a newfound friend. The constant fear of ambush is like nails scraping across your senses, accentuated somehow by the complete lack of comfort given you by the cold, hard ground.

            Resigning yourself to your fate, you keep your eyes open for as long as you can while you drift off. Just before you are claimed by dreams, all you can see is the look on his face when you’d confessed to Bilbo. Just his face, staring at you. Judging you.

            When next you wake, it is to darkened chaos in the pre-dawn light: the others are springing up around you, scrambling for weapons and shouting for help from those still asleep. Blindly you fling out your arm for your morningstar, only to be roughly grabbed and forced to stillness while your hands are bound. You and your companions are led away as the sun rises, feebly poking its watery light through the deadened leaves.

*      *      *

For the second time during your journey, you found yourself tossed unceremoniously into a cell. Granted, it was rather less filthy than the one the goblins had used and you were in rather less danger of getting killed for no reason, but it was still a cell nonetheless.

            Worse, you were entirely separated from the others. From what you’d been able to gather as you’d been marched through this hidden palace of the Wood Elves, each of the company would get their own cell.

            Meaning, in essence, that you’d little to no hope of being able to successfully plan an escape.

            Frightened, frustrated, hungry, you slumped down in the corner. You were exhausted and a substantial part of you wanted to curl up and catch up on the sleep you’d lost last night, but the last time you’d done that you’d awakened to madness and abduction. You’d wait until nightfall, when your captors were likely sleeping too.

            Rubbing your hands over your eyes, you craned your neck to peer down the corridor. There wasn’t much to be seen; just cell after cell. And an Elf or two standing guard here and there, looking impossibly stylish despite their evident ennui. You felt your upper lip curl; it simply wasn’t fair that they should look so unruffled when you and the others were matted and filthy from your journey. Bugger to the lot of them.

            You were brought a meager meal twice, once at midday and once just as night was falling. The guards had said nothing to you, asked no questions and you hadn’t tried to wheedle any information from them. The group as a whole had been interrogated most thoroughly upon your arrival to the place, but had told the Elven king Thranduil nothing of your quest and intentions. Furious at the company’s recalcitrance, he’d ordered all of you separated and jailed until you felt compelled to share your reasons for entering Mirkwood.

            It was some hours after your evening meal that you began to doze, surfacing blearily every now and again to take stock of your surroundings. You’d begun to drift off again when you heard a metallic tapping at the bars. Eyes widening, you went from sleepy to fully alert in a matter of moments. Wishing fervently for a weapon, you crept closer to the bars. There was no one there.

            Frowning, wondering if you’d dreamed it, you begin to turn away again when the tapping returns.

            “I know this seems terribly odd, but it’s me – Bilbo.”

            You freeze. Were you still asleep? You can’t see anyone anywhere. You pinch yourself, and it hurts as it normally would.

            “Never mind why I’m invisible,” says the disembodied voice again, and it really does sound just like the Halfling. “Let’s just say when they attacked the company they couldn’t find me. I followed you all here, and while they were putting you away I had a look around.”

            “Wait – wait a minute. You’re invisible, and you’re free to move about. You had a look around, you said?” Thinking fast now, ignoring your disbelief at the impossibility of Bilbo’s invisibility, you look at where the sound seems to come from. “Did you find anything? Any weakness in their ranks, a way out, maybe?”

            “It just so happens I did.” It could be your imagination, but you can practically hear a smug grin in Bilbo’s voice. “However, it won’t be easy to get us all out through there. It’ll take rather a lot of cunning, luck, and good timing on everybody’s part.”

            “We’ll make it work,” you say, determination seeping slowly into you. It has to. You have to get out of here; you can’t let a bunch of pansy Elves keep you from your mission. “Tell me more about this way out.”

            It takes the better part of the next two days for a plan to be formulated and communicated to the whole of the company. As your meal is brought to you on the evening of the third day of your capture, you stand as the guards approach.

            “I wish to speak to your lord Thranduil.”

            “Unless you would tell him of your purpose here, Thranduil has no need of your trifles.” The guard is dispassionate, bored. Straightening to your full height and puffing out your chest, you put the plan in motion.

            “Perhaps it might interest your lord to know that he has captured the last living descendent of Girion, the Lord of Dale.” That has the guards pausing, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. “I am willing to make known the purpose of myself and these Dwarves, if he would hear me. Otherwise…” You let a malicious grin spread slowly across your face. “Otherwise I shall have to inform my people in Laketown of his transgression. I imagine trading would become a fair bit more difficult with that cluster of Men, wouldn’t you say? And it would spread, make no mistake.” You’re outright bluffing now, and truth be told you’re actually enjoying yourself a fair bit. “No one will have business with the elves, nor would any come to your aid should war arise. Which do you think is the better option?”

            The two look at each other a moment, converse in their language. One sends the other off, and turns then to unlock your cell.

            “You had best be speaking truth, mortal,” he sneers, attempting to regain his superiority. “Lest you find yourself tortured for treason.” You simply incline your head, making note of the faintest of shadows creeping up behind the Elf, stone in hand. Suddenly he crumples before you, the rock having bounced soundly off his skull. Bilbo appears before you in a flash, grinning at his handiwork. You nod your thanks, and hurry off with the Hobbit to free the others.

            It takes a bit of time and no small amount of clatter, but soon enough you find yourself being crammed inside a barrel normally used for shipping wine or dry goods to the Men in Laketown. Saluting briefly to Bilbo and the others, you pull the lid shut behind you and let yourself be the first pushed into the rushing river below.

            Over the next several hours, the company found itself by bits and pieces washing up on the shores of Laketown. Once all present and accounted for, and little Bilbo thoroughly congratulated, you made your way as one into the town proper. A quick chat with the mayor and it was announced that Thorin Oakenshield, son of the line of Durin, had returned to drive Smaug away and retake the Lonely Mountain. You were taken to the local inn and given rooms that to you seemed beyond luxurious, and informed that a feast and celebration was being prepared in the company’s honor for the evening.

            However, you were not one for the company of strangers that night. You wouldn’t have minded a good meal with your traveling companions: you knew them and had become comfortable with most of them. Kíli, sadly, no longer included in that category.

            But when you are led to a massive hall, greater even than Beorn’s had been, you feel your unease growing steadily. You begin to tremble, feeling any and every gaze that lands on you like a brand beneath your skin.

            “You’re looking quite astonishingly lovely,” an older woman purrs.

            _“You’re pretty enough for me, and cheap too,” she’d giggled as she pushed you onto the rickety bed_.

            One of the men of the town rakes his eyes over your form, winking and raising his glass.

            _“No noise now; I didn’t pay for your opinions.” The smack of his hand across your face had barely registered before he’d plunged painfully inside you._

            Little groups of people giggling, whispering behind their hands as you pass by.

            _“Never done an honest day’s work, unless you count the rutting.”_

            Your head is throbbing, and bitterness is rising like bile in your throat. It was too much, and too soon. Too many memories that still hurt far more than they should.

            Rallying yourself, pushing your thoughts away long enough to plead exhaustion and escape the stifling jubilance of the hall, you quickly slip away into the cool nighttime air. Many a curious eye follows you out and it twists your stomach into sharp, angry knots. You weren’t some bloody exhibit. Why couldn’t they just leave you alone?

            “Where are you going?”

            You close your eyes briefly in a prayer for patience. “Out. I need some air.”

            Kíli cocks his head to the side, studying you. “Here now, you’re upset.” He catches you up, moves in front of you to peer at your face. You fight the urge to shove him out of your way; it’s only partially his fault you’re in a foul mood.

            “Just leave it, alright? I’m fine.”

            “That’s a poor lie, and you know it.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Something’s bothering you. I want to help.”

            “Did Bofur put you up to this?” you demand. “It’d be just like him; he’s always so bloody concerned if I’m not grinning like a fool all the damned day.”

            “Why does it make you angry that he cares about you?”

            “Did he put you up to this or not? Either way, your food’s getting cold.”

            He looks affronted. “I’ll have you know that food isn’t the only thing that matters to me. He didn’t put me up to anything; I followed you on my own. And you didn’t answer my question.”

            “Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

            “Do you usually treat concerned friends this way?”

            “I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’ve never had one before.” The words are out before you can stop them, and no amount of wishing can make them unspoken again. Surprise overtakes the irritation on Kíli’s face, and he reaches a hand toward you.

            “Don’t.” You step away, jerkily shaking your head. You don’t need any more sympathy, any more pitying looks, any more people you cared about leaving once they knew the truth. Better to keep it hidden, and save yourself the pain.  

            “I don’t understand you.”

            A mirthless bark of laughter slices through your throat. “Well, you’re in good hands! Nobody does.”

            “Because you won’t let them try.” The irritation is creeping back into his voice, his expression.

            “You know what I am,” you spit out, quickly losing an already tenuous hold on your temper. “How many people d’you think have tried to understand, much less befriend a tavern whore?”

            “Stop it.” He all but growls it out, features darkening. “Stop saying these things; I can’t bear it.”

            “ _You_ can’t bear –?” Again that grating laugh. “How the hell d’you imagine _I_ feel?” Everything inside you is shaking uncontrollably, threatening to break into a thousand pieces. Here was someone you’d felt really connected to, had shared amazing experiences with, all because you’d saved him from the jaws of death on an impulse. And he was looking at you as all the others had – like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, hearing. With disbelief and disgust written plain as day all over his beautiful features. He couldn’t bear it; that was rich. You were having your heart torn out and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

            All this flashes by in less than a second; you come back to the present moment and find yourself seething where you stand.

            “You want to know why I need air? Why I’m angry about Bofur and you caring?” Your voice is shaking now as well, and without intending it you’re stepping forward to jab your finger into the Dwarf’s chest. “Why I don’t let anybody in? How sweet of you. Let’s go for a walk; this is going to take a while.” You begin making your way to the forest that borders the town, forcing yourself not to turn around when Kíli doesn’t immediately follow. Once you’ve reached the quiet sanctuary of the trees, you let out a long sigh and flop ungraciously onto a nearby boulder.

            “My family isn’t the only reason for wanting Smaug dead.” The anger is draining now like water through your fingers, as quickly as it came. “They’re a large part of it, yeah. But the other reason is…me. I need to know that I’m worth something.” You hold up a hand as Kíli makes to protest. “Please, please don’t say anything, or try and convince me that I’m…” Throat working hard, you fight back tears. “Just let me get this off of my chest, okay?” You wait until he nods, albeit reluctantly. You look away, up to the vast palace of stars that twinkle so merrily above you.

            “You overheard what I told Bilbo. You know what I had to do to eat and earn my keep. A descendent of Girion, making their living from submitting to the will and whimsy of others.” Biting self-deprecation colors your voice, seeming to chill the air around you. “You know that I saved up, year after year, until I had enough to leave that life behind me, and have a hope of avenging my family. I left Bree to take on the dragon that had destroyed us.”

            You take a deep, steadying breath, clench your eyes shut. “But, that wasn’t the only reason. I thought…” Shuddering, you draw your knees up, put a hand over your face. “I thought I could prove that I was capable, strong, a warrior like those before me. I wanted to live up to the nobility that runs in my veins. I wanted – I _needed_ to prove to myself that I wasn’t like they told me I was. A worthless, filthy slut that couldn’t amount to anything.

            “And for a little while, it almost worked. Standing up for myself when Beorn challenged me. Having a part in escaping from the elves. Saving you, seeing you mend by my hand.” You finally look at Kíli full on, and your eyes are full of grief. “Back there, at the feasting. It – I couldn’t take it; it was too much like my old life. The looks I was getting, the comments everybody was making. I kept having flashbacks, awful ones, where places like that were a prelude to another night of pain and self-doubt and my feelings being tossed by the wayside. I panicked, and I left. That’s why I don’t let people get close, because every time I do I end up losing them. You lot are the first group of friends I’ve ever known, and the thought of losing that –” You stop a moment; you have to. “It’s like knives in my gut, Kíli, burning blades that don’t stop cutting at me until there’s nothing left. I _can’t_ lose that, so I didn’t tell you. So you wouldn’t leave me.”

            “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. Whatever happens, I swear to you you’ll always have a friend in me.” He takes your hand in his, pulls you to your feet.

            You’re not ready to believe him fully, not yet. But he has been kind, and more patient then you could have hoped for. He deserves thanks for that if nothing else.

            You rise on your toes to kiss his cheek, but he turns his head at the last instant – suddenly your lips meet, and you’re stifling a gasp as his grip on your hand tightens noticeably. The moment stretches out, impossibly lengthy.

            His mouth is soft and warm upon your own, and you feel his heart speeding to match yours. There’s an inexplicable desire curling low in your stomach, but your reliving of the past is still too near at hand. Still too painfully raw.

            You pull back, and begin to stride away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, gratuitous smut :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See also "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse

“What – where are you going?” Kíli hastens after you, grabs your arm with more gentleness than you’d expected. You turn back, unsettled, just wanting to fade away. He looks so confused and a little sad, like a lost puppy. Your heart starts to melt, and you have to consciously fight the urge to pet his long, tangled hair. Wrenching your arm free, you take another deliberate step away.

            “You don’t want to do this.” It astonishes you how calm, how flat your voice is, when inside you’re reeling with need. “You don’t want me.”

            “Why would you say that? Such utter nonsense?” He’s smart enough to not close the space between you again, but you can see his fingers twitching as a frown creases his brow.

              _He only wants release_ , you think firmly to yourself, trying to stamp out the quivering hope in your heart. Hope was a cruel trick, and yours had been dashed once too often. _That’s why he kissed you; he can see that you’re available. You mean nothing to him beyond a few hours in the dark_.

            Steeling yourself, you order your muscles to relax, to keep hidden the ferocity of the tension inside you. “Kíli, I…” You sigh, run trembling fingers through your hair. “Look, this just isn’t – it’s not meant, alright? A prince doesn’t romp around with a – with someone like me. I’m way beneath your station, and not what you’re looking for. I have nothing to offer you.”

            Kíli’s look of confusion is fading quickly, to be replaced with a darkening fury that makes him look quite a bit like his ever-brooding uncle. “And how,” he begins, all trace of pleading gone from his voice, “Could you _possibly_ know what it is I want?” His eyes are glittering, and a sliver of fearful arousal crawls down your spine. “You dare to presume such knowledge?”

            You can see that his breathing has quickened, and despite the coolness of the air color is riding high in his cheeks. His hands, large and calloused, have balled into unrelenting fists. His feet are planted firmly, shoulder width apart, and the moonlight streaming through the trees wreaths his figure in a silver halo that all but leaves you breathless.

            He looks ready to do battle, and you are terribly afraid of what the casualties may be.

            “You think you are nothing to me, based solely on past events that have no bearing on our time together. You think that because of what you had to do to survive I will think less of you, and for some _stupid_ reason you think a rank that’s nothing more than an accident of birth would make me view you as unworthy. You’re wrong.”

            In a single stride he surges forward, grabs your wrists and presses you against the trunk of a nearby redwood. There is more in his eyes than anger now, you realize. There is something that you cannot define, and it is causing the Dwarf before you great pain.

            _“You saved my life.”_ He hisses it out, inches from your face, and you’re shocked to see his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Were it not for you, I would have never seen my brother, my uncle, the company that has become my family again. You’ve no idea what that means to me, do you?” Without waiting for you to reply, he steps even closer, only a breath away. “They are everything, _everything_ to me. My life and my breath. Without them, I am already dead. You saved me, and gave me back that life they inspire in me.

            “And it is much more than gratitude I feel for you. You’ve shown to me your passions, your loyalty and honor, the things that drive you on your path. The things that haunt you and that you grieve over. I know what you are, far better than even you do. And make no mistake.” He loosens his hold on your wrists, threads his fingers with yours. “I want you, every part of you. The good parts and the bad, for how can you have light without the darkness to define it?”

            You are scarcely breathing, your chest tight and hot. Every nerve is tingling; _this cannot be happening_. No one has truly wanted you, all your life. And if they did, it was quickly dismissed once they knew more of you. What Kíli was offering you was a terrifying depth of understanding, of acceptance, and you were far adrift in a sea of the unknown without any knowledge of how to stay afloat. You would surely drown if you took this ultimate plunge into what was being offered to you.

            But when your force yourself to meet his eyes, to see that he needs this every bit as much as you do, all you can think is that if you don’t, you will spend the rest of your life wondering over what might have been. And you’ve never been a fan of needless torture.

            You allow the shakiness inside to leak out into your breath, knowing no better way to tell him of your desire, how strongly he affects you. Gripping his hands with fingers that had been slack moments before, you close your mind to the fact that you’re opening your heart and press trembling lips to his. And moan at how true, how right it feels. His lips are like sun-warmed honey made solid, and the sweetness of the kiss sends your head spinning. You’ve been waiting, thirsting for this for so long. And only the feel of him responding, mouth firming under yours and arms encircling your waist, can even begin to quench that thirst.

            It’s…slow, this kiss. Unhurried, as if you’ve all the time in the world. Slow and soft, curious and shy where your other encounters working in the tavern had been a rushed heat, seeking only physical fulfillment. This was so, so much more. This was the meeting and the melding of two hearts as much as the meeting of mouths.

            You fully intended to savor every lasting moment of it.

            Bringing your hands up to stroke at his neck, you let out a sigh as he groans at your touch. The tip of a very wet tongue creeps out to trace over your lower lip, to gently prod at the opening of your mouth. You want to open to him, gods above do you want to, but some still-uncertain part of you wants to make him wait, to see if he will hold himself to his words. If he cares, truly cares for you, he will understand. You hold on to that as you minutely shake your head and take your lips away for just a moment, before pressing them to the strong muscles of Kíli’s neck. He arches against you a moment, fingertips digging into your hips as he lets out a labored breath.

            You latch on to the sound of that, the sound of his pleasure. You need this small semblance of control, to know you still have mastery over your own fate before you give yourself. You lick up the tendon, up to his ear, and before you can hesitate you take the lobe into your mouth and suckle. The tensing, the flexing in his fingers and the way he’s nuzzling at your cheek as you do this tells you he wants to kiss you again, and desperately so. But he doesn’t try to take over, doesn’t force or rush you. He simply rests his forehead against your collarbone and lets out a mewling cry. Such a soft sound, you think, for a Dwarf who had a moment ago seemed so fierce.

            “Please…I want…I need to know. Please.”

            That has you pausing for an infinitesimal moment, understanding. He truly wants you, and is asking your permission to act on it. Asking you to tell him if his wanting is for naught, if his feelings are at all reciprocated. Asking if you’ll abruptly leave him again, and turn away into the night.

            There is no turning back now; hasn’t been from the moment you’d slung him across your shoulders and carried him to safety from the goblins’ realm. So you press your lips to his again fully, open them and in doing so, open his. Open yourself to all he wants to give you.

            The hot slide of his tongue fills your mouth to the brim, slicking over yours in a way that weakens your knees considerably. His hands come up to frame your face, altering the angle so he can push deeper, taste you fully. Feast himself on your treasures. He presses you back again, letting you feel how hard he is beneath his trousers. Tilts his hips so that the hardness rocks against you, teasing, tantalizing, promising. Your head falls back as it rubs deliciously against your tightening groin. You grip at his shoulders, pressing back. This is as much your journey as his, and you will share in the giving as much as the taking of pleasure.

            You marvel for a moment how all conscious thought is already fading as the mists of desire cloud your heated mind, while you know there is still so much more to come. Hot, sharp hunger is already coiling deep inside your belly.

            Impatient now, longing to know what it is you’ve always been denied, you push at the well-worn leather of Kíli’s coat and tug at his shirt, needing the contact of skin to skin. Mouth leaving yours a moment, he sheds his outer-garments and armor, leaning his quiver and bow lovingly against the tree’s trunk. In one fluid motion he pulls off the rough tunic he wears, and a chest well-defined from decades of hard labor is bared to and bathed in moonbeams. A dusting of dark hair curls across his pectorals and travels downwards, disappearing beneath his belted trousers. The hair on his head, the color of dark chocolate, brushes just past his shoulders, braids swinging free.

            Your breath catches hard in your heaving chest. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

            You hasten to remove your own shirt, shivering as the cool air puckers your nipples. Groaning without abandon as Kíli lowers his head to one of them, drawing it into his clever mouth while rough fingers pinch and flick at the other. His teeth and tongue work in dizzying tandem, scrambling your heartbeat and sending tight prickles of sensation lancing through your veins. He kneads at the muscles of your arse with his other hand, squeezing and pushing and massaging with his knuckles.

            It’s almost enough to make you come on the spot; the fire pooling in your crotch is licking its relentless flames ever higher under such an onslaught. Your senses are thrilling to every touch, nearly overwhelmed. No one, not a one has ever turned you into such a live wire as this, so pliant and yielding, so _desperate_ for more. And it’s desperate you feel as you dig into his shoulders, fist your hands in his silky hair, for if this does not go through to completion you will surely die. Is he feeling similarly; does he want what you want so acutely? He has to. He has to, and if he doesn’t you’ll make him. You’ll have your way with him until he’s begging for satiation.

            As though reading your thoughts, he straightens again and arrows a hard look deep into your eyes, the dilation of his pupils turning his eyes almost black. You return it inch for inch, and began tearing at the belt and strings that hold his trousers snug against his slender hips. Not a moment after they’re loosened, you boldly plunge your hand inside to grasp the length of him. A gasp rips from your throat as a moan spills from his; not only is his size considerable, but he feels like velvet-wrapped steel in your palm. Long, thick, impossibly hard under such soft skin. It’s a heady sensation. Fascinating.

            Experimenting, you run the pad of your thumb over the head, starting a little at the liquid already present there. You squeeze, just a little, and repeat the motion. A small murmur from the Dwarf has you continuing, sliding up and down the shaft. Gripping and releasing, building a steady rhythm. He’s breathing hard, pressing his forehead to yours and closing his eyes. Struggling to contain the intensity, the enormity of pleasure coursing within him. After what feels like altogether too soon, Kíli takes your hands away and puts them back at his neck.

            “What’s – did I do something wrong?” You’re shocked at how ragged your own voice has become, how you have to concentrate to speak coherently.

            He lets loosed a pained chuckle, stoops down and gathers you into his arms. “Not at all, love. You did something too good, more like.” He’s making his quick and silent way through the woods now, heading farther away from the town. “I don’t want this to end before it’s begun. At least,” he grinned, the familiar light of mischief in his eyes, “Not until I’ve had my turn with your wonderful body. I’ve been so tempted by you these weeks, and now that I actually have you I’m going to take my time about things.”

            His words have your loins tightening, beginning to throb with need. His intentions, purred into your ear in that gorgeous voice, are stirring new embers of anticipation: The others, before, had wasted no time in telling you just how little you meant, if they deigned to speak to you at all. They’d only been interested in their own desires being met. And here was this amazing, amazing person telling you how he wanted to please _you_. Insisting that you were worth his time and energies.

            It takes a great deal of effort to stem the tears that burn behind your eyes.

            He sets you back on your feet gently, almost reverently. Kisses you long and deep, sucking at the moist heat of your tongue. He hooks his thumbs into your breeches, starts circling the calloused tips over your hips. Inciting your need. Inflaming your desire.

            Suddenly the restrictive fabric is gone from your legs, gone to pool at your feet. You shiver, and it’s no longer from the outside temperature. Kíli hesitates, just a moment…and then he palms you, feeling your arousal. You’re hot, and leaking, and it changes his breathing. It’s deeper now, and not quite steady.

            A long, throaty moan spills from your lips as he touches you, strokes you, lingers over the sweet spots. You’re trembling nonstop now; something warm and wild is building inside you. Flowing and ebbing, rising and falling with every careful caress from your lover. Washing strong tides of sensation over you, like waves upon the shore. Eroding away your inhibitions, your doubts and fears.

            Eradicating your control.

            You push into his hand, savoring the delicious friction. Craving it, needing it. As such you let out an unintelligible protestation as he pulls away, gently stops your hands from pulling him back.

            “Hush, shh.” Kíli holds you close then, fighting tooth and nail to keep himself from tearing into you. “Patience, _azugâl_. Making it last will make it even better later on.”

            “I want you _now_ ,” you whisper, holding to him like your life depends on it. You twist your head to nip at where his shoulder joins his throat, and you feel the rumbling growl that ripples out from his chest.

            “I don’t want to hurt you, or make you feel like things are going too quickly.” He pulls away just enough to stop your ministrations and brush a hand over your mussed hair, feeling his heart miss a beat as he gazes at into your lust-heavy eyes. “I want this to be beautiful for you.”

            You groan, unable to handle the enormity of what’s happening. Smiling, he tips your chin up.

            “Trust me, _azugâl_. I’ll make it good.”                                     

            Shaking, unsteady, mind whirling with want, you nod slowly. The small smile blooms into a full-on grin as he kisses your forehead.

            “Wait here. I won’t be long.” And indeed within a minute you can see him returning, bringing his clothes and yours with him. Putting the pile aside, he takes his large leather coat and spreads it out on the forest floor.

            Heartbeat jumping, terribly nervous and incredibly excited, you move to join him. He has disrobed fully now as you have, and his naked form is a wonderful thing to behold in the pine-scented starlight.

            Those legs, strong and sturdy. His hips and torso, banded with muscle and moving quickly with his breath. Those arms, carved from marble and capable of such tenderness. The strong neck, high cheekbones and full lips, the dark eyes that saw and accepted and loved. All waiting, just for you.

            You’ve never been so aroused, so fully touched, mind and body and spirit, in your life.

            He looks serious now, and you find yourself feeling similarly. It is no small thing, what you are about to share. You’ve chosen this path together, and will see it through till the end.

            He sits, tugs on your fingers to bring you with him. He cradles you in his lap, nibbling at the bounding pulse in your neck. You arch into the silk of his lips, letting his hands stroke over your sides, up and down, impossibly slowly. Your head falls back as his sex strains against your own; it’s obvious that he’s more than ready to take what you offer. But he doesn’t, not yet. He’s intent on pleasuring you, making you feel wanted as you deserve.

            He bites down lightly, drawing the sensitive skin between his teeth and flicking his tongue over it in quick little flutters. You’re coming undone oh so slowly, writhing in the circle of his arms. Surrendering to his attentions.

            But you want to make him moan as well, watch as he loses the ability to think coherently. You want to give him pleasure beyond imagination.

            Concentrating, focusing past the little fire he builds at your neck, you begin to press rhythmically at his shoulders, kneading the tough muscle there. He groans into the hollow of your throat, lashes brushing over the mark he’s made as he closes his eyes. You press skillfully with just your fingertips, your knuckles, your full hands as you massage the Dwarf. You move your hands up his spine to tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, tug at it lightly. His breathing is quickening again, teeth clenching against his need.

            Empowered, you grin wickedly at his reaction. Carefully you begin to circle your hips just so, making sure to ghost over his erection at every pass. It’s his turn now to dig into your shoulders; a muscle is jumping in his jaw and the breath coming hard from his long nose is nothing short of shaky.

            “Sweet Mahal; I swear you’ll be the death of me.”

            “Would that be so bad, then?” You purr at his ear, flicking your tongue over the tip. “I’m drawing it out, making it last like you said.”

            “Aye, you’re a fast learner. And at least I would die happy.” He takes your hips then, stilling them a moment. Shifting his grip, one at your back and the other just over your arse, he lowers you gently to the ground. You’re facing the sky now, the clear light of the stars shining down upon you and Kíli as you lay side by side.

            He draws you into his arms and you let loose a gasp; having his fully, gloriously naked body pressed inch for inch against yours is startling, overwhelming. The rasp of his leg hairs on your own, his solid chest heaving against yours, the tangle of your limbs as he draws you in for a passionate kiss.

            His hands are everywhere now, roaming freely, tracing your every line. You eagerly follow his lead, stroking the curvature of his many muscles, pressing at sensitive flesh, grasping at his arousal and pumping it achingly slow, knowing it will drive him wild.

            And indeed a deep, dark groan rips from his lips, swollen from kisses. His eyes are bright and flashing as he rolls, putting you atop him. Triumphant as you cry out against the finger now circling teasingly at your entrance. As it slips inside you fall forward, needing to brace your hands on either side of his head to keep from collapsing entirely. Once you’re loosened a bit he adds a second, crooking the both of them once fully seated inside you. You’re tight and scorchingly hot, clenching instinctively around his fingers. Trying desperately to take him further.

            “Kíli, Kíli,” you whimper. “Kíli, _please_. I need you.”

            Far from calm himself, he withdraws his fingers and uses your moisture and his own pre-come to slick himself over, readying himself for your body. Taking his arousal in hand, grunting in anticipation, he carefully positions himself at your entrance.

            “Breathe through it,” he whispers raggedly, guiding you down onto the dampened length of him. “Deep, slow breaths at first.” He hisses as the head, just the sensitive tip of him, slips inside. Arms trembling, he pulls you further down. “Just at first, love. To…” Another hiss; he’s slowly and surely losing his grip on intelligibility. “To draw it out. Make it…last.” He’s fully seated inside you now, filling you, stretching you impossibly wide. Breaching you impossibly deep. A thready groan pours out of him as he begins to roll his hips up slowly, gently.

            You’re scarce breathing at all, still adjusting to this glorious feeling of utter fulfillment. When he begins to move, seeming to nudge your core with every careful thrust, you can’t support yourself any longer. You lower to press your chest to his on a shudder, weaving your fingers into his sweat-soaked hair, burying your face into the tensing muscles of his neck. Surely you cannot be feeling so much, all at once. The pleasure burning through every fiber of your being coupled with the fullest love singing in your heart is too much for any one person to handle.

            Kíli’s all but crooning to you now, in a fevered mix of Khuzdul and Westron. Words of sweetness and endearment tumble from his lips like a waterfall, seeping through your heated mind like a cool drink of spring water on a summer’s day.

            Trying to remember his advice, you breath deep through your nose and exhale shakily through your mouth, and somehow that deepens the pleasure, gives it an edge you weren’t expecting. Again, and a third time, and suddenly things are coming to a head incredibly quickly. You’ll be lost soon, if you can’t slow down.

            Kíli, sensing the change and feeling every muscle bunch tight in response, moves to grasp you firmly around your back. He quickens his pace but shortens his thrusts, making sure you won’t come too soon. He’s concentrating fiercely through the storm inside him, making sure you will climax together. Battling back his own pleasure to ensure yours.

            Each expulsion of air is a moan now, breaths intermingling hotly as you surge together. It seems the whole world is spinning tighter and tighter, focused solely on the ever-sharpening ecstasy at the place where you’re joined. Kíli is panting without abandon against your neck, the raggedly hot air coaxing the fire inside higher, higher, hotter. It is now a towering inferno that races along every nerve, blazes through every pore.

            Yet you are still just barely kept from that final peak, though you can sense its nearness like the air upon your skin. Without words you roll, taking Kíli with you so now your positions are reversed; you’re on your back looking up, and he is pounding hard and fast into you. A wordless scream, an affirmation of your pleasure, is rising rapidly in your throat.

            When Kíli reaches down a hand to stroke you in time with the maddened snap of his hips, at the same time claiming your lips once again, it is only seconds before you’re coming harder than you ever have before. It rips through you like a supernova, has you rearing up, shouting, convulsing wildly. You feel your name fall from Kíli’s lips like a prayer or a plea, and suddenly the wet pulse of his own orgasm is filling you, searing your senses. Heart hammering like a timpani in your ears, you cling to him fiercely as he collapses atop you.

            Your head is spinning, body shaking through the aftershock. Your legs have gone absolutely weak and you smile a bit, glad of the fact that you won’t be able to walk unassisted for some time.

            Kíli, for his part, lies gasping on you, trembling with the force of his climax. Slowly the two of you drift back to earth, coming to rest in each other’s arms.

            And as he moves off of you, slips himself out and pulls you close with an infinitely tender kiss, you know with utter surety that you’re wanted, that you’re loved. That nothing will ever touch you again, not when you know you are worth everything to the Dwarf beside you.


End file.
